This might seem an odd topic for a summer post, but since deciding a few weeks ago to reduce my intake of bread and other gluten-heavy substances, I have been starting each day with a bowl of delicious (and gluten-free) porridge--or as we like to call it here, a big bowl of health.
Now, writing about porridge may seem an unnecessary venture as folks like Mark Bittman (for one, with his vegan-until-six strategy for optimal health and greater sustainability), and his faithful followers, have long preached the benefits of eating one's daily gruel, expounding on the plethora of available grains, both glutinous and gluten-free, and the manifold approaches one might take toward their preparation.
Before Bittman, there were mothers and grandmothers who served up oatmeal and Cream of Wheat and Red River with milk and, at least when mom was looking the other way, copious amounts of brown sugar. And later, in university, a host of instant hot cereals that could be easily made with a spoon and a mug of hot water. Though I found these cereals for the most part revolting, they did make excellent companions on hiking and camping trips, and could satisfy the appetite and its cravings when there was little money in the bank and seemingly nothing in the pantry.
For me, however, what has made this last month of porridge consumption feel like something worth writing about is the discovery of what might be called a summer porridge, and the abundant pleasures associated with its preparation. In fact, there is something quite meditative about the process, and this is perhaps one of the things I like most about it. Instead of shoving some toast into my mouth while sitting at the computer or walking to the metro, or not eating anything at all--my heretofore range of possible breakfast activities--I am required to wait patiently near the stove for 10-15 minutes, gently stirring.
Sure, the same kind of attention can be given to the folding of an omelette or the boiling of an egg, but as I prefer to eat this most perfect of foods for lunch or supper, my morning meal has long been of the toast with cheese and jam variety. And because in all aspects of my life I am striving for a greater sense of calm, this two-minute breakfast leaves me feeling both spiritually and physically wanting.
It may sound hokey, but its true.
And so to porridge. When I moved out of the house at 19, I stopped eating porridge altogether, thinking it too old-fashioned and uncool. In fact, for most of my 20s and 30s, I did not eat breakfast at all, save the occasional tub of yoghurt, which a fellow student told me was scientifically-proven to increase memory and therefore aid in the writing of exams. Eating breakfast just made me hungry, and because I was rarely organized enough to make myself lunch and could not be bothered to go out and hunt something down, hunger was something I wanted to avoid. When my husband got wind of this a few years ago--I was often off to work before he rose--he took it upon himself to improve my habits. That this agenda coincided with a shift to working later in the day made it easier for him to put his plan into effect, yet though I have long enjoyed the pleasures of a leisurely weekend brunch, the eating of breakfast remained something of an obligation.
But things have changed.
My favorite breakfast treat, both to eat and prepare, is a bastardized version of a recipe I found in Mangoes and Curry Leaves by Naomi Duguid and Jeffrey Alford.
The pleasures begin at the market, especially now, with the abundance of peaches, plums and fresh berries available (in the winter, mangoes and frozen berries will suffice). In addition to fruit, I also pick up as many different kinds of nuts as I can afford and find that pecans and cashews are especially good.
Duguid and Alford make a semolina porridge, which can be eaten with both sweet and savory accompaniments, but since my goal is to eat less gluten, I have been using a mix of corn meal, sorghum and buckwheat called Mighty Tasty Hot Cereal.
Then you need some plain yoghurt, a sweetener of some kind, a stash of limes, some sesame oil, and a few spices: ground ginger, red chillies and mustard seed.
The preparation is a breeze.
Heat a little sesame or vegetable oil in a pan with a lid. Warm gently and add your three spices--about a 1/2 teaspoon of each if you are making breakfast for two. Let them sizzle a bit and become fragrant and then dump in a cup of water and bring it to a boil. When the water boils, add a pinch of salt and 1/3 cup of the cereal, and stir to break down the lumps.
Put the lid on, lower the heat, and let it simmer for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. If you want to add dried fruit such as raisins or apricots, do so around minute 8. And if it becomes too dry at any point, simply add a little more water and stir it in.
When the porridge is done, ladle into bowls and top with the fresh fruit and nuts that you have chosen to eat. Place a dollop or two of yoghurt on top, drizzle with honey or maple syrup, and if desired and in stock, a little coconut. To finish, squeeze a wedge of lime over top.
Though I have yet to get tired of this, I have also been eating an array of other grains: oatmeal with cardamom, raisins and soy milk; millet cooked in home-made almond milk with nuts and fruit, and just a few hours ago, quinoa with yoghurt, mango-peach salsa, and fresh berries. Even on the hottest day of last week's heat wave, we had porridge. Because what you want more that anything on a day like that is to feel good inside, and I can think of no better food to bring about that goal than summer porridge.
July 29, 2011
July 19, 2011
In Praise of Horseradish...
When I was a kid, I looked forward to many dinners, but roast beef with mashed potatoes, boiled carrots and horseradish was not one of them. In those days, my mom's approach to menu planning meant that the same combinations of side dishes and mains were always employed: fried liver came with creamed corn, mashed potatoes and boiled cabbage, whereas ham came with scalloped potatoes and frozen peas.
With shocking consistency, biscuits accompanied beef stew and clam chowder, while brown bread was the sop up for baked beans. On special nights, like those assigned to the eating of home-made pizza, spaghetti and chop suey, we dined without accompaniments, because the slivers of onion, green pepper and mushroom contained within these exotic delights were felt to meet our dietary needs in terms of vitamins and minerals.
Now, you may be thinking that much of this sounds delicious, and it often was, but because the horseradish was always served with roast beef and mashed potatoes--the former, which for reasons of health and frugality was cooked to well-well-done and sliced paper thin, and the latter, which was mashed with skimmed milk and margarine, and therefore lacking in creamy, buttery goodness--my dislike for those foods had a rather negative effect on my feelings about this most delicious of roots.
Over the years, as my parents (in line with mainstream culture) opened up to new ways of looking at food and diet, and we kids became more outspoken in our desire to have some say in what we ate (and more willing to actually help with the production of this food), our dinners became more and more varied in content. Still, the horseradish sat in the fridge, immune to the ravages of microorganisms and time. Lacking the ability to assert itself, it was forced to wait--for that celebratory holiday meal or the rare family dinner when its presence would be desired and required.
And so it was that until quite recently it had never occurred to me to buy horseradish. For though we are people who enjoy the occasional steak, and have been known to host a summer rib feast, I have never, to my knowledge, cooked up a pot roast. Imagine my shock, then, when a friend arrived at our cottage a few weeks ago with a bottle of said condiment and a plan to produce a delicious potato salad--a plan that was indeed realized. And imagine my delight when this past weekend at the cottage, having volunteered to step in for the ailing chef (aka my mother-in-law) and take over the kitchen duties, I discovered that the very same bottle of this zesty brassica was staring out at me from the refrigerator door.
Known for its curative properties--such as stimulating the immune system and whetting the body's various appetites, and working to counter an array of undesirables like inflammation, anemia and parasites--horseradish, or as it is known to the botany set, Armoracia Rusticana, is a perennial plant from the same family as mustard and broccoli. It is also a vegetable root whose time, if this blog, and the Horseradish Information Council have anything to do with it, has come. For as their website makes clear, though long admired for its "effects" on beef and seafood, this 3,000 year-old "root with roots" is extremely versatile, low in calories, and beloved around the world.
A host of recipes is available on the site, but for me, the most exciting discovery is what it can do for a bowl of slaw.
This weekend, for example, I made two and dressed them both with the same spicy dressing: one part mayonnaise, one part yoghurt, one part olive oil, one part lemon juice and one part horseradish. A little salt and pepper to taste, and a few cups of thinly-sliced vegetables--in one incarnation, red onion, cabbage, and fennel, and in the other, white onion and kohlrabi--and you've got yourself a slaw.
Today, after a much-needed trip to the gym, I had a friend over for lunch, and whipped up a salad of lettuce, toasted almonds, chick peas, tomatoes and red onion dressed with the same dressing (sans mayo).
And tonight? Only a trip to the market will tell, but perhaps a rack of pork ribs with horseradish glaze?
With shocking consistency, biscuits accompanied beef stew and clam chowder, while brown bread was the sop up for baked beans. On special nights, like those assigned to the eating of home-made pizza, spaghetti and chop suey, we dined without accompaniments, because the slivers of onion, green pepper and mushroom contained within these exotic delights were felt to meet our dietary needs in terms of vitamins and minerals.
Now, you may be thinking that much of this sounds delicious, and it often was, but because the horseradish was always served with roast beef and mashed potatoes--the former, which for reasons of health and frugality was cooked to well-well-done and sliced paper thin, and the latter, which was mashed with skimmed milk and margarine, and therefore lacking in creamy, buttery goodness--my dislike for those foods had a rather negative effect on my feelings about this most delicious of roots.
Over the years, as my parents (in line with mainstream culture) opened up to new ways of looking at food and diet, and we kids became more outspoken in our desire to have some say in what we ate (and more willing to actually help with the production of this food), our dinners became more and more varied in content. Still, the horseradish sat in the fridge, immune to the ravages of microorganisms and time. Lacking the ability to assert itself, it was forced to wait--for that celebratory holiday meal or the rare family dinner when its presence would be desired and required.
And so it was that until quite recently it had never occurred to me to buy horseradish. For though we are people who enjoy the occasional steak, and have been known to host a summer rib feast, I have never, to my knowledge, cooked up a pot roast. Imagine my shock, then, when a friend arrived at our cottage a few weeks ago with a bottle of said condiment and a plan to produce a delicious potato salad--a plan that was indeed realized. And imagine my delight when this past weekend at the cottage, having volunteered to step in for the ailing chef (aka my mother-in-law) and take over the kitchen duties, I discovered that the very same bottle of this zesty brassica was staring out at me from the refrigerator door.
Known for its curative properties--such as stimulating the immune system and whetting the body's various appetites, and working to counter an array of undesirables like inflammation, anemia and parasites--horseradish, or as it is known to the botany set, Armoracia Rusticana, is a perennial plant from the same family as mustard and broccoli. It is also a vegetable root whose time, if this blog, and the Horseradish Information Council have anything to do with it, has come. For as their website makes clear, though long admired for its "effects" on beef and seafood, this 3,000 year-old "root with roots" is extremely versatile, low in calories, and beloved around the world.
A host of recipes is available on the site, but for me, the most exciting discovery is what it can do for a bowl of slaw.
This weekend, for example, I made two and dressed them both with the same spicy dressing: one part mayonnaise, one part yoghurt, one part olive oil, one part lemon juice and one part horseradish. A little salt and pepper to taste, and a few cups of thinly-sliced vegetables--in one incarnation, red onion, cabbage, and fennel, and in the other, white onion and kohlrabi--and you've got yourself a slaw.
Today, after a much-needed trip to the gym, I had a friend over for lunch, and whipped up a salad of lettuce, toasted almonds, chick peas, tomatoes and red onion dressed with the same dressing (sans mayo).
And tonight? Only a trip to the market will tell, but perhaps a rack of pork ribs with horseradish glaze?
May 21, 2011
Hawaii. Who Knew...
For most of my life I have had a completely unwarranted hate-on for Hawaii. My feelings about the island were formed in my Calgary youth, when I associated its tropical climes with the jerks and jocks who returned to school each January with bronzed bods and puka shell necklaces. Instead, I longed for the romance of the great cities, to be a traveler and not a tourist. I wanted to devote my leisure time to the development of my intellect, seeing their seaside antics as a clear indication of their inferior breeding. In retrospect, I was simply jealous: of their wealth, and of the easy confidence that seemed to come with it. Still, as I grew older, my feelings about Hawaii remained. Like a grown woman whose dislike of beets was based on a 35 year-old memory of a nightmarish late-night rejoinder, I held strong to my childhood convictions, never allowing for the possibility that as it was with the beets, I might one day become a fan.
And so it was that for the last few years, my parents' suggestion that we join them in Hawaii was met with a far from enthusiastic shrug. But as parents often do, they persisted, and today, I am the happy beneficiary of their determination. For Hawaii, or Maui, which is the island upon which I am currently stationed, is a remarkably beautiful and relaxing place, replete with an abundance of tropical fruit, an ocean full of exotic fishes and playful sea turtles, and a schedule that puts a fruity drink in your hand at exactly 3:00 in the afternoon. It also has a biodiversity that is truly astounding, allowing you to pass from sun-baked arid plains to fog-engulfed rain forest in less than 30 minutes.
As a lower-case foodie and when-possible locavore, I was excited about digging into the local fare. However, a trip to the nearby farmer's market made clear that eating locally means getting creative with a relatively limited slate. There is coffee in abundance, and plenty of steak-y fish. There are mangoes, bananas, papayas and coconuts, and there is pig - not pork, pig. There is arugula and basil and Lacinato kale. There are super-sweet Maui onions, giant avocados that never seem to be ripe and plenty of chevre. And there is starch: taro and manioc and blue sweet potatoes. If you drive for awhile, you can get your hands on some fresh eggs and milk, but pretty much everything else is shipped in from the mainland. And though I had a hankering for some naturally smoked bacon, when I saw it came from New Jersey, I was too overwhelmed by the wrongness of it all to make the purchase.
We have also been checking out the local delicacies. Today, having checked our trusted guide Road Food for suggestions, and made the less than inspiring journey to a mini-mall near to the airport, we stopped for the plate lunch at Da Kitchen. From what I have been able to surmise, the plate lunch is a Hawaiian staple consisting of two giant scoops of white rice, some "potato mac"--an inspired solution to the eternal dilemma: potato salad versus macaroni--some type of grilled or breaded or deep-friend meat, and a sweet and sour sauce.
But first, we had to try the Musubi.
For reasons still unclear to me, Mauians have a long standing love affair with Spam, that canned luncheon meat that many of us consumed in the dark days of our youth before salsa and Caesar salad and pasta--aside from the Kraft boxed spaghetti dinner--came to be part of the suburban North American diet. In fact, Hawaii is the spam capital of the United States, a title it has maintained since the meat-like product was first introduced to the islands during WWII.
At Da Kitchen, the Spam Musubi is encased in sushi rice and seaweed, then doused in Panko and deep fried. The fist-sized ball of goodness comes unadorned on a plain white plate, and as the server's lack of concern about procuring our cutlery with any speed suggests, is consumed lukewarm.
Surprisingly, what resonates on the tongue after the first mouthful is the taste of seaweed, with the spam offering only a slight meaty aftertaste and a glisten of fat on the lips. What resonates in the stomach long afterward is the starchy excess. Though there is little in Maui to remind one that they are in the US, the portion sizes--both in restaurants, and at the Costco, where things are almost literally twice as big as they are in Montreal--are a clear indication. Luckily, we had read about the size of the plate lunches and so had ordered two to share between four.
Once again, though the pulled kalua pork was as tasty and as tender as promised, it was the literal weight of the lunch that lingered long afterward in our minds. And it was only after our short trek to the lush and verdant Iao valley, and our time spent gazing at the phallic landform that is the Iao needle, that we were able to even contemplate what to procure for our evening meal.
And now, as I sit here on the lanai, with the ever-present birdsong and the crash of waves lapping upon the shore, with the Maui onions grilling on the barbecue and my fruity drink by my side, with the sea turtles and the sky in the distance turning pink and orange over the horizon, I wonder why on earth it took me so long to get here. And like Mark Twain before me, I will pass the coming week with pleasure, knowing that when I do have to finally bid it farewell, I will do so with great, great affection.
And so it was that for the last few years, my parents' suggestion that we join them in Hawaii was met with a far from enthusiastic shrug. But as parents often do, they persisted, and today, I am the happy beneficiary of their determination. For Hawaii, or Maui, which is the island upon which I am currently stationed, is a remarkably beautiful and relaxing place, replete with an abundance of tropical fruit, an ocean full of exotic fishes and playful sea turtles, and a schedule that puts a fruity drink in your hand at exactly 3:00 in the afternoon. It also has a biodiversity that is truly astounding, allowing you to pass from sun-baked arid plains to fog-engulfed rain forest in less than 30 minutes.
As a lower-case foodie and when-possible locavore, I was excited about digging into the local fare. However, a trip to the nearby farmer's market made clear that eating locally means getting creative with a relatively limited slate. There is coffee in abundance, and plenty of steak-y fish. There are mangoes, bananas, papayas and coconuts, and there is pig - not pork, pig. There is arugula and basil and Lacinato kale. There are super-sweet Maui onions, giant avocados that never seem to be ripe and plenty of chevre. And there is starch: taro and manioc and blue sweet potatoes. If you drive for awhile, you can get your hands on some fresh eggs and milk, but pretty much everything else is shipped in from the mainland. And though I had a hankering for some naturally smoked bacon, when I saw it came from New Jersey, I was too overwhelmed by the wrongness of it all to make the purchase.
We have also been checking out the local delicacies. Today, having checked our trusted guide Road Food for suggestions, and made the less than inspiring journey to a mini-mall near to the airport, we stopped for the plate lunch at Da Kitchen. From what I have been able to surmise, the plate lunch is a Hawaiian staple consisting of two giant scoops of white rice, some "potato mac"--an inspired solution to the eternal dilemma: potato salad versus macaroni--some type of grilled or breaded or deep-friend meat, and a sweet and sour sauce.
But first, we had to try the Musubi.
For reasons still unclear to me, Mauians have a long standing love affair with Spam, that canned luncheon meat that many of us consumed in the dark days of our youth before salsa and Caesar salad and pasta--aside from the Kraft boxed spaghetti dinner--came to be part of the suburban North American diet. In fact, Hawaii is the spam capital of the United States, a title it has maintained since the meat-like product was first introduced to the islands during WWII.
At Da Kitchen, the Spam Musubi is encased in sushi rice and seaweed, then doused in Panko and deep fried. The fist-sized ball of goodness comes unadorned on a plain white plate, and as the server's lack of concern about procuring our cutlery with any speed suggests, is consumed lukewarm.
Surprisingly, what resonates on the tongue after the first mouthful is the taste of seaweed, with the spam offering only a slight meaty aftertaste and a glisten of fat on the lips. What resonates in the stomach long afterward is the starchy excess. Though there is little in Maui to remind one that they are in the US, the portion sizes--both in restaurants, and at the Costco, where things are almost literally twice as big as they are in Montreal--are a clear indication. Luckily, we had read about the size of the plate lunches and so had ordered two to share between four.
Once again, though the pulled kalua pork was as tasty and as tender as promised, it was the literal weight of the lunch that lingered long afterward in our minds. And it was only after our short trek to the lush and verdant Iao valley, and our time spent gazing at the phallic landform that is the Iao needle, that we were able to even contemplate what to procure for our evening meal.
And now, as I sit here on the lanai, with the ever-present birdsong and the crash of waves lapping upon the shore, with the Maui onions grilling on the barbecue and my fruity drink by my side, with the sea turtles and the sky in the distance turning pink and orange over the horizon, I wonder why on earth it took me so long to get here. And like Mark Twain before me, I will pass the coming week with pleasure, knowing that when I do have to finally bid it farewell, I will do so with great, great affection.
January 9, 2011
Recreating Momofuku's Spicy Noodles...
I was at the market today, perusing the wares at my new favorite vegetable stand, Chez Nino - the best possible place for seekers of culinary inspiration - when I came across a heap of fresh baby spinach and had a flashback to my amazing lunch at Momofuku Noodle Bar last summer.
The Noodle Bar, for those who have not experienced its gustatory wonders, is just one of the many hip, and as far as I can tell, worthy-of-the-hype New York restaurants run by chef/owner David Chang. To have one of their famed pork buns melting on your tongue is to experience true multisensory bliss, and though some would call even the idea of a vegetarian option blasphemy, the cloud-like texture and gentle sweetness of the bun provides an equally heavenly compliment to the mound of carmelized shiitakes that spill from its herbivore-pleasing folds. The restaurant is also known for their ramen, but though I became giddy at the sight of the perfectly poached egg hovering on the soup's surface, the mountain of pork belly and shredded pork glistening underneath made me realize that I am a one-slice-of-pork-belly-per-day kind of girl.
Seeking something equally noodle-y, I chose instead their spicy noodles - despite the server's assertively-expressed doubt that I probably could not handle the heat - served chilled on a pile of fresh baby spinach with Sichuan pork and candied cashews. And it was this dish that I returned to this afternoon, remembering the appealing contrast of textures and flavours that it contained.
Back home again, with what I knew were the essential ingredients - ground pork, fresh wheat noodles, spinach and cashews - I sought in vain to locate a recipe on the internet, finding only the trace of recent failures to secure this valuable information. And so, armed only with my memory, my willingness to go boldly in the kitchen, and a handful of recipes to cover gaps in knowledge or lapses in instinct, I forged on, arriving at what I must declare was some pretty tasty fare.
Though not a tricky dish, it has many steps and takes a fair bit of time to prepare. That said, everything can be made in advance, so you can work for a few hours, take a break for cocktails and leisure activities, and then return to quickly assemble the meal when you have long forgotten the hours spent in the kitchen.
FOR THE SPINACH:
Wash, dry and put aside one handful of spinach per person.
FOR THE CASHEWS:
I followed this recipe: one half cup of cashews, one quarter cup of sugar and two tablespoons of water. You throw them together in a sauce pan and heat it over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Once that happens, you continue to cook it, stirring occasionally, for about 15 minutes or until the sugar crystallizes.
What is crazy is that at about minute 14, you will look into the pot and wonder what the hell the recipe was talking about as no crystallization will have occurred. Filled with despair, you will look away for a second, and when you look back, the sugar will have fully crystallized and be in danger of burning. The lesson: be patient, keep stirring and do not turn away once the liquid starts to evaporate.
As a final step, scrape the cashews onto a cookie sheet and roast in a 350 degree oven for about 15 minutes, or until they are slightly browned and crisp. Put aside to cool.
FOR THE PORK:
For inspiration, I used a recipe for spicy pork from the Momofuku cookbook that I found on a food blog with a less-than-appetizing image on its header. Because my pantry was absent a few required ingredients, I made a few revisions, but it was delicious and contained many of the same qualities as the version I remembered: sweet, garlicky, spicy and porky.
And speaking of the Momofuku cookbook, a friend of mine received it for Christmas, and in addition to being tremendously excited by the culinary adventures that it portends, has found it be an equally satisfying read on a purely intelletual level. But back to the recipe:
Fry ground pork - as much as you will need for the number of people you are intending to feed, maybe about one third cup per person - until nicely browned and cooked through. Put aside.
Drain excess oil and add sliced shallots (or onions) and cook slowly so that they carmelize. For two people, I used five medium shallots, but you could use more or less depending on your taste. When they are done, add them to the bowl with the pork and mix. Put aside.
In the same frying pan, add some oil and when it gets warm, add some dried red chilies to your taste. I used about one tablespoon, but found the dish a little milder than I would have liked, so will add more next time. Now, the recipe will tell you to let the oil get very very hot before adding the chilies, but I would caution against this, or at least caution you against standing anywhere near the pan when doing this, as I narrowly escaped a painful and possibly catastrophic ocular injury when a chili popped, and in an oil-soaked rage, flew out of the pan and into my left eye. Luckily, my husband was standing by with a glass full of water, which I held to my eye socket until the pain subsided. It was more terrifying than anything else, but I wore my glasses for the remainder of the pork prep, just to be safe.
When you can feel the heat of the chilies in the air, add three cloves of garlic to the pan and continue to saute them until they become fragrant. Then, add a teaspoon or so of the Sichuan peppercorns, a third of a cup or so of water, a tablespoon or so of sugar, and two good sized splashes: one of fish sauce, the other of soy. And when that gets to bubbling up, return the pork and shallots to the pan with a big handful of chopped chives and stir until the flavours have mingled to become one. Put aside.
FOR THE FLAVOURED OIL:
Take about a quarter cup of vegetable or sesame oil and add one tablespoon of dried red chilies, one teaspoon of Sichuan peppercorns and one half teaspoon of ground ginger. You could use fresh ginger as well, and even a little garlic if you liked. Let it sit for a bit. Actually, you could make this at the beginning of the recipe, as the longer it sits, the better. Put aside.
FOR THE TOASTED SHALLOTS:
Thinly slice shallots, toss with oil, and roast in a 400 degree oven, stirring often to avoid burning. They should be crisp, so leave them in there as long as you can.
When you are ready to eat, prepare the noodles as per the instructions. Drain and toss with the oil and a little bit of tamari. Then, into a big bowl drop a handful of spinach leaves, a pile of noodles, a pile of pork, and some candied cashews. As a final touch, sprinkle the top with the crispy shallots. It will be as beautiful to look at as it tastes. I promise. I also think it would be pretty good with twice-fried crumbled tofu.
You fry that tofu twice and you can pretty much make it do anything.
The Noodle Bar, for those who have not experienced its gustatory wonders, is just one of the many hip, and as far as I can tell, worthy-of-the-hype New York restaurants run by chef/owner David Chang. To have one of their famed pork buns melting on your tongue is to experience true multisensory bliss, and though some would call even the idea of a vegetarian option blasphemy, the cloud-like texture and gentle sweetness of the bun provides an equally heavenly compliment to the mound of carmelized shiitakes that spill from its herbivore-pleasing folds. The restaurant is also known for their ramen, but though I became giddy at the sight of the perfectly poached egg hovering on the soup's surface, the mountain of pork belly and shredded pork glistening underneath made me realize that I am a one-slice-of-pork-belly-per-day kind of girl.
Seeking something equally noodle-y, I chose instead their spicy noodles - despite the server's assertively-expressed doubt that I probably could not handle the heat - served chilled on a pile of fresh baby spinach with Sichuan pork and candied cashews. And it was this dish that I returned to this afternoon, remembering the appealing contrast of textures and flavours that it contained.
Back home again, with what I knew were the essential ingredients - ground pork, fresh wheat noodles, spinach and cashews - I sought in vain to locate a recipe on the internet, finding only the trace of recent failures to secure this valuable information. And so, armed only with my memory, my willingness to go boldly in the kitchen, and a handful of recipes to cover gaps in knowledge or lapses in instinct, I forged on, arriving at what I must declare was some pretty tasty fare.
Though not a tricky dish, it has many steps and takes a fair bit of time to prepare. That said, everything can be made in advance, so you can work for a few hours, take a break for cocktails and leisure activities, and then return to quickly assemble the meal when you have long forgotten the hours spent in the kitchen.
FOR THE SPINACH:
Wash, dry and put aside one handful of spinach per person.
FOR THE CASHEWS:
I followed this recipe: one half cup of cashews, one quarter cup of sugar and two tablespoons of water. You throw them together in a sauce pan and heat it over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Once that happens, you continue to cook it, stirring occasionally, for about 15 minutes or until the sugar crystallizes.
What is crazy is that at about minute 14, you will look into the pot and wonder what the hell the recipe was talking about as no crystallization will have occurred. Filled with despair, you will look away for a second, and when you look back, the sugar will have fully crystallized and be in danger of burning. The lesson: be patient, keep stirring and do not turn away once the liquid starts to evaporate.
As a final step, scrape the cashews onto a cookie sheet and roast in a 350 degree oven for about 15 minutes, or until they are slightly browned and crisp. Put aside to cool.
FOR THE PORK:
For inspiration, I used a recipe for spicy pork from the Momofuku cookbook that I found on a food blog with a less-than-appetizing image on its header. Because my pantry was absent a few required ingredients, I made a few revisions, but it was delicious and contained many of the same qualities as the version I remembered: sweet, garlicky, spicy and porky.
And speaking of the Momofuku cookbook, a friend of mine received it for Christmas, and in addition to being tremendously excited by the culinary adventures that it portends, has found it be an equally satisfying read on a purely intelletual level. But back to the recipe:
Fry ground pork - as much as you will need for the number of people you are intending to feed, maybe about one third cup per person - until nicely browned and cooked through. Put aside.
Drain excess oil and add sliced shallots (or onions) and cook slowly so that they carmelize. For two people, I used five medium shallots, but you could use more or less depending on your taste. When they are done, add them to the bowl with the pork and mix. Put aside.
In the same frying pan, add some oil and when it gets warm, add some dried red chilies to your taste. I used about one tablespoon, but found the dish a little milder than I would have liked, so will add more next time. Now, the recipe will tell you to let the oil get very very hot before adding the chilies, but I would caution against this, or at least caution you against standing anywhere near the pan when doing this, as I narrowly escaped a painful and possibly catastrophic ocular injury when a chili popped, and in an oil-soaked rage, flew out of the pan and into my left eye. Luckily, my husband was standing by with a glass full of water, which I held to my eye socket until the pain subsided. It was more terrifying than anything else, but I wore my glasses for the remainder of the pork prep, just to be safe.
When you can feel the heat of the chilies in the air, add three cloves of garlic to the pan and continue to saute them until they become fragrant. Then, add a teaspoon or so of the Sichuan peppercorns, a third of a cup or so of water, a tablespoon or so of sugar, and two good sized splashes: one of fish sauce, the other of soy. And when that gets to bubbling up, return the pork and shallots to the pan with a big handful of chopped chives and stir until the flavours have mingled to become one. Put aside.
FOR THE FLAVOURED OIL:
Take about a quarter cup of vegetable or sesame oil and add one tablespoon of dried red chilies, one teaspoon of Sichuan peppercorns and one half teaspoon of ground ginger. You could use fresh ginger as well, and even a little garlic if you liked. Let it sit for a bit. Actually, you could make this at the beginning of the recipe, as the longer it sits, the better. Put aside.
FOR THE TOASTED SHALLOTS:
Thinly slice shallots, toss with oil, and roast in a 400 degree oven, stirring often to avoid burning. They should be crisp, so leave them in there as long as you can.
When you are ready to eat, prepare the noodles as per the instructions. Drain and toss with the oil and a little bit of tamari. Then, into a big bowl drop a handful of spinach leaves, a pile of noodles, a pile of pork, and some candied cashews. As a final touch, sprinkle the top with the crispy shallots. It will be as beautiful to look at as it tastes. I promise. I also think it would be pretty good with twice-fried crumbled tofu.
You fry that tofu twice and you can pretty much make it do anything.
January 3, 2011
My Year in Food...
As an arts reporter, it is my job each December to sum up the year's best and worst - a task that I am understandably discomfited by, possessing neither the ego nor the compulsion to make such qualitative pronouncements. Since it is my duty, however, to do just that, my approach is to step back from making any kind of grand statement and focus instead on those shows/artists/artworks that either pleased or displeased me. For what more can I do than express my own subjective response to things that may have garnered entirely different reactions from different viewers at different times?
In discussing the year in food, a grand statement if ever there was one, I must also step back from any kind of assumptive declarations. This is not about the best and worst in food, nor does it aim to make any kind of statement about trends in eating, either globally or locally. Instead, it is a simple recounting of three gastronomically-related things that made me feel excited, healthy, happy and sated in the year that was 2010.
CAVALO NERO
Though my friends at An Endless Banquet were writing about this most delectable of leafy greens as far back as October 2007, it was only a few weeks ago that I discovered its perfection. In Montreal, it is generally known as Lacinato or Tuscan kale, though I have also heard it sold under the moniker Dinosaur kale, a name that is presumably drawn from the lizard-like texture of the vegetable when raw. When cooked, however, it is an entirely different story. In fact, what distinguishes this princely kale from its more proletarian cousins is its texture, which one might compare to a young collard green: toothy yet tender. There is also the taste, though in my efforts to describe it, I find myself groping for adjectives, hoping that earthy and green will suffice.
If this is not enough to send you stampeding to the vegetable stand, kale is also insanely good for you, and incredibly easy to prepare. A few nights ago, for example, we simply sauteed it in a little butter, popped the lid on to create a little steam, and then tossed it with some lemon juice, lemon zest, crushed chilies and a few walnuts. Sitting aside a bowl of lamb-fennel Bolognese, it provided a fresh and crunchy counterpart to the pasta's silky richness. For breakfast, the leftovers made great company for an otherwise guilt-inducing fried egg sandwich.
HAY, HAY OIL and Do-It-Yourself MOLECULAR GASTRONOMY
In order to talk about hay, the least likely of culinary ingredients, I have to first talk about Noma, the Danish restaurant that this year unseated El Bulli as the World's Best. Last summer, I was perusing the interweb when I came across a video of Mark Bittman talking about his trip to the restaurant. In an effort to demystify the complex science that is molecular gastronomy, he was taking the audience through a recipe for one of Noma's signature dishes: potato chips with chocolate and fennel seeds. I was, to say the least, intrigued, and made haste to the Noma website where I put in an order for chef René Redzepi's cookbook.
Jump ahead a few months as, with weighty tome in hand, I sat down to look for something to make for dinner and came across a recipe requiring among many other things, the production of hay oil. Several hours later, having successfully procured a bundle of organic hay from a farmer at the Jean Talon market - an easier task than anticipated, and one that put in me in great favour with the young man who had been packing and unpacking the hay all summer with nary a sale - and having toasted that hay in the oven for over two hours and then macerated it in a layer of sunflower oil, I was one step closer to the completion of my dish: Jerusalem Artichokes and Toasted Hay Oil, Yoghurt and Truffles.
Unsurprisingly, preparing gastronomically molecular dishes at home is no easy feat, even when you have chosen to make the least complicated recipe in the book. First, instead of a team of skilled labourers, you have only you - and if you're lucky, your husband. When you are one (or two) and there are a handful of tasks that need to be completed at the same time, something must fall by the wayside. Here, it was the cutting of the Jerusalem artichoke slices - the peeling and slicing of which in itself took over an hour - into perfect 2cm diameter rounds. Instead, I switched to a more-easily realized hexagonal thematic which cut my prep time to roughly one-third.
Second, unless you are inclined to purchase appliances you will rarely use, you have to make do with more pedestrian items like your regular old oven and blender instead of the intended Pacojet and 180 degree water bath. These appliances work perfectly fine when braising a pot roast or whipping up a smoothie, but fail miserably when the task requires simultaneous blending and freezing (horseradish snow) or 90-degree roasting (pork fat brittle).
Third, you have to venture into heretofore unknown areas of culinary endeavor such as jellies, foams and airs. My proudest moment in this regard was when my 3mm thick organic apple jello discs, made from apple juice that my husband had pressed and strained earlier in the day, actually came out of the pan. Sadly, the satisfaction of that moment was crushed seconds later, when the discs were laid over mounds of steaming braised oxtail and were instantaneously reduced to the juice whence they came. That I did not weep is testament only to my desire to save face in front of my guests.
And finally, when preparing molecular cuisine, you have to come to terms with the fact that after working in the kitchen for 8-10 hours, washing countless dishes, and leaving a huge carbon footprint from having had the oven on for the duration, what you have produced amounts to about four tablespoons of food.
You also have to figure out what to do with the rest of the hay, for hay - as most farmers will tell you - comes only by the bushel. And so, a few months later, my husband prepared what has come to be known in our house as Hay Ham, aka the best ham that anyone who has eaten it has eaten.
Though the recipe can be found online, it is basically a ham that after a day or so of soaking is simmered for three hours in a pot full of water and hay. On a winter day, with the windows sealed tight, the barnyard smell during the first hour of cooking can be a little hard on the nose, but by hour two, the aroma is decidedly more appetizing. And more importantly, the ham itself, when served with a shallot, mustard and tarragon cream sauce and a few raspberries, is truly beyond delicious.
SAME INGREDIENT - DIFFERENT PREPARATIONS
Though this has long been a staple of snazzy restaurants, and is probably, to frequenters of high-end joints, a little bit passé, 2010 was the first year that I embraced the pleasures of cooking and eating a single food prepared multiple ways at the same time. This technique, in addition to making you feel quite snazzy yourself, is also a good way to make a little food go a longer way, which can really come in handy when trying to make a pleasing dinner for 8-10 people without going broke in the process.
For example, though you may feel a little miserly attempting to feed a dozen people with two pork tenderloins, serving small plates with three delicious little bundles - four is too many, two, not enough - is so delightful that it completely overshadows the fact that there is very little food on the plate. That said, since most of us eat significantly more than our bodies actually need, walking away from a dinner party feeling sated instead of sluggish can actually be quite a treat.
This year, for Christmas eve, I prepared a first course of beets three ways. The key to making dishes like this is creating an array of contrasts: red and yellow, raw and cooked, hard and soft, sour and sweet. If I had my druthers, I would have started with different coloured beets, but as I could only lay my hands on some red ones, I had to make do. There were nine of us for dinner and about six medium-sized beets, which was just about perfect.
First, I peeled them all, and then chopped four of them into largish chunks. Half of the chunks I boiled, and the other half, I roasted in olive oil. Again, if it were not for the fact that the oven was already on, this would have been extremely wasteful in terms of energy - something to keep in mind. So while one-third of the beets were boiling and one-third were roasting, I took the remaining raw beets and grated them. Because they were not as sweet as the ones we enjoy during the summer months, I added a drizzle of maple syrup and a splash of balsamic vinegar. I also added a pinch of sea salt and a few minced chives for colour. Then I put them aside.
When the boiled beets were tender, I submerged them in a cup of apple cider and dropped in a star anise - an idea, I must confess, that I got from Redzepi. When the beets were done roasting and it was time to sit down for dinner. I removed the star anise, pureed the beets and apple cider, and strained them to remove the extra liquid. On each plate, I put a sprig of dill for colour, a spoonful of beet puree, a spoonful of grated beet, a teeny morsel of blue cheese, and three roasted beet chunks. Delightful.
In discussing the year in food, a grand statement if ever there was one, I must also step back from any kind of assumptive declarations. This is not about the best and worst in food, nor does it aim to make any kind of statement about trends in eating, either globally or locally. Instead, it is a simple recounting of three gastronomically-related things that made me feel excited, healthy, happy and sated in the year that was 2010.
CAVALO NERO
Though my friends at An Endless Banquet were writing about this most delectable of leafy greens as far back as October 2007, it was only a few weeks ago that I discovered its perfection. In Montreal, it is generally known as Lacinato or Tuscan kale, though I have also heard it sold under the moniker Dinosaur kale, a name that is presumably drawn from the lizard-like texture of the vegetable when raw. When cooked, however, it is an entirely different story. In fact, what distinguishes this princely kale from its more proletarian cousins is its texture, which one might compare to a young collard green: toothy yet tender. There is also the taste, though in my efforts to describe it, I find myself groping for adjectives, hoping that earthy and green will suffice.
If this is not enough to send you stampeding to the vegetable stand, kale is also insanely good for you, and incredibly easy to prepare. A few nights ago, for example, we simply sauteed it in a little butter, popped the lid on to create a little steam, and then tossed it with some lemon juice, lemon zest, crushed chilies and a few walnuts. Sitting aside a bowl of lamb-fennel Bolognese, it provided a fresh and crunchy counterpart to the pasta's silky richness. For breakfast, the leftovers made great company for an otherwise guilt-inducing fried egg sandwich.
HAY, HAY OIL and Do-It-Yourself MOLECULAR GASTRONOMY
In order to talk about hay, the least likely of culinary ingredients, I have to first talk about Noma, the Danish restaurant that this year unseated El Bulli as the World's Best. Last summer, I was perusing the interweb when I came across a video of Mark Bittman talking about his trip to the restaurant. In an effort to demystify the complex science that is molecular gastronomy, he was taking the audience through a recipe for one of Noma's signature dishes: potato chips with chocolate and fennel seeds. I was, to say the least, intrigued, and made haste to the Noma website where I put in an order for chef René Redzepi's cookbook.
Jump ahead a few months as, with weighty tome in hand, I sat down to look for something to make for dinner and came across a recipe requiring among many other things, the production of hay oil. Several hours later, having successfully procured a bundle of organic hay from a farmer at the Jean Talon market - an easier task than anticipated, and one that put in me in great favour with the young man who had been packing and unpacking the hay all summer with nary a sale - and having toasted that hay in the oven for over two hours and then macerated it in a layer of sunflower oil, I was one step closer to the completion of my dish: Jerusalem Artichokes and Toasted Hay Oil, Yoghurt and Truffles.
Unsurprisingly, preparing gastronomically molecular dishes at home is no easy feat, even when you have chosen to make the least complicated recipe in the book. First, instead of a team of skilled labourers, you have only you - and if you're lucky, your husband. When you are one (or two) and there are a handful of tasks that need to be completed at the same time, something must fall by the wayside. Here, it was the cutting of the Jerusalem artichoke slices - the peeling and slicing of which in itself took over an hour - into perfect 2cm diameter rounds. Instead, I switched to a more-easily realized hexagonal thematic which cut my prep time to roughly one-third.
Second, unless you are inclined to purchase appliances you will rarely use, you have to make do with more pedestrian items like your regular old oven and blender instead of the intended Pacojet and 180 degree water bath. These appliances work perfectly fine when braising a pot roast or whipping up a smoothie, but fail miserably when the task requires simultaneous blending and freezing (horseradish snow) or 90-degree roasting (pork fat brittle).
Third, you have to venture into heretofore unknown areas of culinary endeavor such as jellies, foams and airs. My proudest moment in this regard was when my 3mm thick organic apple jello discs, made from apple juice that my husband had pressed and strained earlier in the day, actually came out of the pan. Sadly, the satisfaction of that moment was crushed seconds later, when the discs were laid over mounds of steaming braised oxtail and were instantaneously reduced to the juice whence they came. That I did not weep is testament only to my desire to save face in front of my guests.
And finally, when preparing molecular cuisine, you have to come to terms with the fact that after working in the kitchen for 8-10 hours, washing countless dishes, and leaving a huge carbon footprint from having had the oven on for the duration, what you have produced amounts to about four tablespoons of food.
You also have to figure out what to do with the rest of the hay, for hay - as most farmers will tell you - comes only by the bushel. And so, a few months later, my husband prepared what has come to be known in our house as Hay Ham, aka the best ham that anyone who has eaten it has eaten.
Though the recipe can be found online, it is basically a ham that after a day or so of soaking is simmered for three hours in a pot full of water and hay. On a winter day, with the windows sealed tight, the barnyard smell during the first hour of cooking can be a little hard on the nose, but by hour two, the aroma is decidedly more appetizing. And more importantly, the ham itself, when served with a shallot, mustard and tarragon cream sauce and a few raspberries, is truly beyond delicious.
SAME INGREDIENT - DIFFERENT PREPARATIONS
Though this has long been a staple of snazzy restaurants, and is probably, to frequenters of high-end joints, a little bit passé, 2010 was the first year that I embraced the pleasures of cooking and eating a single food prepared multiple ways at the same time. This technique, in addition to making you feel quite snazzy yourself, is also a good way to make a little food go a longer way, which can really come in handy when trying to make a pleasing dinner for 8-10 people without going broke in the process.
For example, though you may feel a little miserly attempting to feed a dozen people with two pork tenderloins, serving small plates with three delicious little bundles - four is too many, two, not enough - is so delightful that it completely overshadows the fact that there is very little food on the plate. That said, since most of us eat significantly more than our bodies actually need, walking away from a dinner party feeling sated instead of sluggish can actually be quite a treat.
This year, for Christmas eve, I prepared a first course of beets three ways. The key to making dishes like this is creating an array of contrasts: red and yellow, raw and cooked, hard and soft, sour and sweet. If I had my druthers, I would have started with different coloured beets, but as I could only lay my hands on some red ones, I had to make do. There were nine of us for dinner and about six medium-sized beets, which was just about perfect.
First, I peeled them all, and then chopped four of them into largish chunks. Half of the chunks I boiled, and the other half, I roasted in olive oil. Again, if it were not for the fact that the oven was already on, this would have been extremely wasteful in terms of energy - something to keep in mind. So while one-third of the beets were boiling and one-third were roasting, I took the remaining raw beets and grated them. Because they were not as sweet as the ones we enjoy during the summer months, I added a drizzle of maple syrup and a splash of balsamic vinegar. I also added a pinch of sea salt and a few minced chives for colour. Then I put them aside.
When the boiled beets were tender, I submerged them in a cup of apple cider and dropped in a star anise - an idea, I must confess, that I got from Redzepi. When the beets were done roasting and it was time to sit down for dinner. I removed the star anise, pureed the beets and apple cider, and strained them to remove the extra liquid. On each plate, I put a sprig of dill for colour, a spoonful of beet puree, a spoonful of grated beet, a teeny morsel of blue cheese, and three roasted beet chunks. Delightful.
September 23, 2010
Oh, Polenta...
Recently, the New York Times Magazine published a piece arguing against the tyranny of the mise-en-place: that process by which any (every) chef of note prepares for the cooking of a dish by carefully slicing and dicing the plethora of ingredients required for its success. Of course, in most restaurant scenarios, the mise-en-place is prepared by a team of underlings who crawl into bed each night with carotene-stained fingers and the smell of onions in their nose hairs.
Like many home chefs with obsessive-compulsive disorder and a tendency to romanticize the labour of men and women in perfectly-ironed sparkling white frocks, I have long desired to attain the perfect mise-en-scene. At my parents' house, where there are dozens of small clear glass dishes, but no interest in such nonsense, I created an elaborate mise-en-place for a 12-person Indian dinner, complete with roasted spice mixtures and separate bowls of garlic and ginger. This was Christmas 2008, and though I remember little about the meal itself, I remember the feeling of accomplishment as I stood in front of my little bowls, picturing myself tossing one ingredient after another into the smoking ghee.
At home, though I endeavor to attain such perfect order, I inevitably fail to meet my own standards for excellence. I blame this on my lack of matching bowls, but in truth, I know that it is simply life that is getting in my way. Last March, when underemployed and entertaining my mom for a few weeks, we turned the preparation of the mise-en-place into something magical. First, we would prepare our daily cocktail. Then, we would sit across from each other with our cutting boards and ingredients and spend the next hour or two chopping and chatting to our hearts' content. This is one of the loveliest ways that I have found to pass the hours between cinq and sept, but now that I am back at work, such luxuries are beyond my reach.
Which returns me to the present. Tonight when I arrived home, having spent the previous hour nursing a headache and a bag of ruffles on the never-ending metro ride home from work, I was reminded of my offer to make dinner. I had come across a recipe for grit pudding with succotash in another issue of the Magazine, and had thought it might be the perfect way to use up some of our over-stocked vegetables: cabbage, peppers, eggplant, tomatoes and squash.
Earlier, I had asked my husband to put some dried mushrooms into soak, and as I took care of a few email-related tasks, he chopped up a handful of shallots and put them in the old cast iron with a little olive oil. When I emerged from the internet cloud, they were nicely carmelizing and a small pile of chopped red pepper was sitting on the cutting board. I threw it into the pan with the dried mushrooms, added a little of the soaking stock, and let it simmer up.
Then, with a nod to the recipe, I set a pot to boiling and dropped in a handful of edamame. Meanwhile, I chopped up some eggplant, garlic and parsley, and my fella halved some yellow cherry tomatoes and grated up some cheese: half Parmesan, half old cheddar. When things were starting to look good in the old ragu, I threw in the eggplant, garlic and parsely, added some more mushroom stock, and let the thing alone for a while longer.
I have Mark Bittman to thank for my ongoing love affair with polenta because he pointed out how easy it is to make when you just stick it on the stove and forget about it. Basically, you take a cup of coarse cornmeal and add a cup of water, stirring it until you have a slurry. Then you put the lid on a let it heat up. When things start looking tacky, you add a little water, and keep doing this until it tastes cooked and you have a consistency that you like. When you get to the point where all is right in the world, you add some butter, salt and the cheese and stir it around.
By that time, the vegetable mixture needed only to be loosened a little with a splash of white wine, a pat of butter, and some salt. I tossed it with a little chili for fire, and the fresh tomatoes, and then let it sit for a minute so the flavours could meld. When you are ready to eat, you spoon some of that cheesy polenta into a bowl, pile some vegetables on top and sprinkle the whole thing with a little extra Parmesan. To me, this is really the perfect meal for an early autumn night. That it came together with such ease I attribute to the good vibes and shared labour in the kitchen, proving once again, that sometimes not being prepared is what can also create something amazingly good.
Like many home chefs with obsessive-compulsive disorder and a tendency to romanticize the labour of men and women in perfectly-ironed sparkling white frocks, I have long desired to attain the perfect mise-en-scene. At my parents' house, where there are dozens of small clear glass dishes, but no interest in such nonsense, I created an elaborate mise-en-place for a 12-person Indian dinner, complete with roasted spice mixtures and separate bowls of garlic and ginger. This was Christmas 2008, and though I remember little about the meal itself, I remember the feeling of accomplishment as I stood in front of my little bowls, picturing myself tossing one ingredient after another into the smoking ghee.
At home, though I endeavor to attain such perfect order, I inevitably fail to meet my own standards for excellence. I blame this on my lack of matching bowls, but in truth, I know that it is simply life that is getting in my way. Last March, when underemployed and entertaining my mom for a few weeks, we turned the preparation of the mise-en-place into something magical. First, we would prepare our daily cocktail. Then, we would sit across from each other with our cutting boards and ingredients and spend the next hour or two chopping and chatting to our hearts' content. This is one of the loveliest ways that I have found to pass the hours between cinq and sept, but now that I am back at work, such luxuries are beyond my reach.
Which returns me to the present. Tonight when I arrived home, having spent the previous hour nursing a headache and a bag of ruffles on the never-ending metro ride home from work, I was reminded of my offer to make dinner. I had come across a recipe for grit pudding with succotash in another issue of the Magazine, and had thought it might be the perfect way to use up some of our over-stocked vegetables: cabbage, peppers, eggplant, tomatoes and squash.
Earlier, I had asked my husband to put some dried mushrooms into soak, and as I took care of a few email-related tasks, he chopped up a handful of shallots and put them in the old cast iron with a little olive oil. When I emerged from the internet cloud, they were nicely carmelizing and a small pile of chopped red pepper was sitting on the cutting board. I threw it into the pan with the dried mushrooms, added a little of the soaking stock, and let it simmer up.
Then, with a nod to the recipe, I set a pot to boiling and dropped in a handful of edamame. Meanwhile, I chopped up some eggplant, garlic and parsley, and my fella halved some yellow cherry tomatoes and grated up some cheese: half Parmesan, half old cheddar. When things were starting to look good in the old ragu, I threw in the eggplant, garlic and parsely, added some more mushroom stock, and let the thing alone for a while longer.
I have Mark Bittman to thank for my ongoing love affair with polenta because he pointed out how easy it is to make when you just stick it on the stove and forget about it. Basically, you take a cup of coarse cornmeal and add a cup of water, stirring it until you have a slurry. Then you put the lid on a let it heat up. When things start looking tacky, you add a little water, and keep doing this until it tastes cooked and you have a consistency that you like. When you get to the point where all is right in the world, you add some butter, salt and the cheese and stir it around.
By that time, the vegetable mixture needed only to be loosened a little with a splash of white wine, a pat of butter, and some salt. I tossed it with a little chili for fire, and the fresh tomatoes, and then let it sit for a minute so the flavours could meld. When you are ready to eat, you spoon some of that cheesy polenta into a bowl, pile some vegetables on top and sprinkle the whole thing with a little extra Parmesan. To me, this is really the perfect meal for an early autumn night. That it came together with such ease I attribute to the good vibes and shared labour in the kitchen, proving once again, that sometimes not being prepared is what can also create something amazingly good.
September 22, 2010
For the Love of Sweetened Condensed Milk...
A friend once said something very wise about the difference between baking and cooking: cooking is an art; baking is a science. And I ain't no scientist!
I wholeheartedly concur. It's not that I can't bake, in fact, my recent (dare I say) stunning success in recreating Momofuku's insanely rich and delicious Crack Pie shows that when I put my mind to it - and have a talented and extremely patient co-conspirator sharing the helm - I am actually capable of producing some pretty delectable confections.
For the most part, however, I am really quite a terrible baker, because the specifics of baking - the need to measure, and sift, and put in exactly what the recipe tells you to - runs afoul of my whatever goes culinary philosophy. And of course, my laziness. And so it is that desserts at our house consist primarily of pieces of dark chocolate, dates, and the occasional sliver of candied ginger, artfully arranged on a small plate and consumed with whiskey, brandy - or at least, something vaguely resembling brandy.
As another friend recently said, shattering my delusions: real brandy doesn't come in a plastic bottle.
Now, you might be thinking that this all sounds quite lovely, and indeed, a treat plate, when consumed in conjunction with a comedy nightcap, sends one off to bed in an extremely satisfied state. Still, I long for the aroma of something sweet and bubbly (or crumbly or crisp) coming out of the oven.
When I was a kid there was always dessert: apple pie with cheese, date bars, chocolate chip cookies, Brown Betty. Like most kids, we looked forward to dessert from the moment we got home from school and saw it sitting on top of the stove, cooling. In those days, we would lobby hard to gain recognition for the validity of presserts. And when over and over again we were told that this would never happen, I would comfort myself knowing that when I grew up, I would be making and eating desserts whenever I pleased. Then I grew up.
Sometimes, I become obsessed with the idea of dessert, and rifle through the cabinets between episodes looking for something to whip up. This happened a few nights ago between episodes of Party Down, and brought forth a sigh of despair from my husband, who foresaw an hour of chaos (on my part) and waiting (on his), resulting in the production of something that was likely to be, at best, merely palatable. True, we had no eggs, or flour, or cocoa, and the cane sugar cubes - which I had already tried (and failed) to dissolve in a bowl of banana bread batter - were ill-suited to any task.
And then I saw it: a can of sweetened condensed milk, bought months ago for some dinner party or another, long abandoned and forgotten about and sitting dust-covered at the back of the shelf. I quickly googled desserts, condensed milk, and in a second, was whipping up something good.
Turns out, all you need to do with sweetened condensed milk is add a few spoonfuls to a cup of yoghurt and mix it together. Then you stick it in the fridge, and in an hour or so, you have something resembling pudding. Recently, after watching an episode of Master Chef, I realized that what I am really lacking in the kitchen is flair. So to flair it up, I added about a lemon's worth of zest and some coarsely ground black pepper. Later, when I pulled it out of the fridge, I topped it with some frozen blueberries, some more lemon zest, and a couple of halved ground cherries for decoration. It was, in a word, delicious. And simple. And soon, as there is a still a plethora of the stuff in a container in the fridge, I will embark on a vanilla-pistachio version with a little red chili for kicks.
I wholeheartedly concur. It's not that I can't bake, in fact, my recent (dare I say) stunning success in recreating Momofuku's insanely rich and delicious Crack Pie shows that when I put my mind to it - and have a talented and extremely patient co-conspirator sharing the helm - I am actually capable of producing some pretty delectable confections.
For the most part, however, I am really quite a terrible baker, because the specifics of baking - the need to measure, and sift, and put in exactly what the recipe tells you to - runs afoul of my whatever goes culinary philosophy. And of course, my laziness. And so it is that desserts at our house consist primarily of pieces of dark chocolate, dates, and the occasional sliver of candied ginger, artfully arranged on a small plate and consumed with whiskey, brandy - or at least, something vaguely resembling brandy.
As another friend recently said, shattering my delusions: real brandy doesn't come in a plastic bottle.
Now, you might be thinking that this all sounds quite lovely, and indeed, a treat plate, when consumed in conjunction with a comedy nightcap, sends one off to bed in an extremely satisfied state. Still, I long for the aroma of something sweet and bubbly (or crumbly or crisp) coming out of the oven.
When I was a kid there was always dessert: apple pie with cheese, date bars, chocolate chip cookies, Brown Betty. Like most kids, we looked forward to dessert from the moment we got home from school and saw it sitting on top of the stove, cooling. In those days, we would lobby hard to gain recognition for the validity of presserts. And when over and over again we were told that this would never happen, I would comfort myself knowing that when I grew up, I would be making and eating desserts whenever I pleased. Then I grew up.
Sometimes, I become obsessed with the idea of dessert, and rifle through the cabinets between episodes looking for something to whip up. This happened a few nights ago between episodes of Party Down, and brought forth a sigh of despair from my husband, who foresaw an hour of chaos (on my part) and waiting (on his), resulting in the production of something that was likely to be, at best, merely palatable. True, we had no eggs, or flour, or cocoa, and the cane sugar cubes - which I had already tried (and failed) to dissolve in a bowl of banana bread batter - were ill-suited to any task.
And then I saw it: a can of sweetened condensed milk, bought months ago for some dinner party or another, long abandoned and forgotten about and sitting dust-covered at the back of the shelf. I quickly googled desserts, condensed milk, and in a second, was whipping up something good.
Turns out, all you need to do with sweetened condensed milk is add a few spoonfuls to a cup of yoghurt and mix it together. Then you stick it in the fridge, and in an hour or so, you have something resembling pudding. Recently, after watching an episode of Master Chef, I realized that what I am really lacking in the kitchen is flair. So to flair it up, I added about a lemon's worth of zest and some coarsely ground black pepper. Later, when I pulled it out of the fridge, I topped it with some frozen blueberries, some more lemon zest, and a couple of halved ground cherries for decoration. It was, in a word, delicious. And simple. And soon, as there is a still a plethora of the stuff in a container in the fridge, I will embark on a vanilla-pistachio version with a little red chili for kicks.
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